She said the wind was her fortress
A shelter keeping her in one place
Forcing her to ground.
Grounding that boiling momentum;
The firing part of her mind that didn’t rest
Was made somber, yet spiked with tinted glass edges
There was a frame in her vision marking the perfect stand off
For intent. Her intent might be spoken.
She speaks from the self- reflected idol of whom she was
Transferring ideas into the field before her,
The mask is behind her and the idea in front
The idea should be dressed to fit ‘its’ occasion
Reality would unfold into ‘its’ own grid in the universe
Allow it to be found without tethers; it pulls with the strength of its own
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